


Julian Pankratz' other, other pen-name.

by ArtanisNaanie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of TAD lyrics, Blow Jobs, Characters Reading Fanfiction, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lambert is very proud of himself, M/M, Meta, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29629470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtanisNaanie/pseuds/ArtanisNaanie
Summary: Jaskier has been writing self-inserted real person fiction about him and Geralt for years, but what will happen when Geralt finds out?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 153
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	Julian Pankratz' other, other pen-name.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was A LABOUR. I was set up to write meta crack and then feelings were pucked all over my fic by these two gentlemen xD
> 
> This fic was written for the square "Getting together" of the Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo.
> 
> I hope you like it and don't hesitate to leave a comment, they are the second best fuel for writers (the first are beverages, coffee or alcohol, depending on the hour).
> 
> Thanks to Sage, who sparkled the idea, Naomi, Liz and Bex for the amazing help and support, the Witcher Writers Group Chat for the agressive love, support, advice and unending optimism.
> 
> Let's get to it, shall we?

Lambert waves a booklet in front of his nose, one of the first nights they’re all together in Kaer Morhen for the winter. It has a nondescript cover, clearly cheap, and looks like it spent a too long time in Lambert’s saddle bag.

“Sooo, Geralt, I stumbled on this very fine piece of literature a while ago. I didn’t know you had it in you, brother!”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt replies, eyeing the booklet with distrust. This kind of edition is usually used for pamphlets, and no pamphlet in which he is mentioned has ever had anything positive to say. Next to him, Geralt can feel Eskel, Aiden, and Coen’s attention firmly on Lambert. He doesn't like it.

“‘ _On the road, Erotic adventures of a Wolf_ , by the famous author Dandelion’ it’s called. Ring a bell?”

What?

“No.” Geralt growls, as Eskel asks, "Since when do you read smut, Lambert?". Lambert just shrugs before going on.

“Well, let me illuminate you. This masterpiece is the tale of two men who travel together and fuck a lot. One of them is a muscly guy with white hair and the other likes to dress as a peacock - author’s words, not mine, one is a hunter and the other is a poet, and the poet writes about their sexual -"

Geralt jumps, trying to tear the booklet from Lambert's hands, but Lambert is quick when he wants to be and jumps on the table amidst the laughter of the other Witchers.

"Give me that!" Geralt is aware he sounds like a petulant child, but he doesn't care. What he does care about are Coen and Eskel flanking him and catching his arms in a relentless grip to prevent him from going after Lambert. He tries to free himself, but his brothers are strong and he's a little bit drunk and he doesn't actually want to hurt them. Or himself.

"Oh, no, surely not, dear White Wolf! Let's see what this unknown Dandelion has to say, shall we?" Lambert opens the book on a random page. Geralt feels that he's going to want to cover his ears. "' _I was helpless to his strength as he kept me against the tree, his pulsing masculinity pushing against mine. "Shut up", he said,_ ' see that really sounds like you, Geralt, _'but how could I, when there were so many things I wanted to say to him! As I continued to shower him with heart-felt praise he decided to stop me in the most languorous way possible, with his lips and his tongue and a kiss that tasted like winter and fire._ ' Do you taste like winter and fire, Geralt?"

"Stop it," he replies through gritted teeth, still fighting his brothers' hold. He can feel the tips of his ears getting hotter and hotter.

"I wouldn't say I _loved_ it, the language is a little bit too flowery for my taste - how's your furled rosebud, Geralt? - but the dude has a pretty wild imagination... or maybe it's not his imagination at all and these are just facts?"

Geralt growls at this, and everybody else laughs loudly. His family is a bunch of assholes.

"So, Geralt, did you 'stroke his hot rod', or did he 'catch your pearl' - this one is just unbelievable by the way -, or did you ‘scent his blooming rose’? Because last I heard of ‘Dandelion’ he was an annoying prick who talked too much, wouldn’t leave you alone and followed you only because he makes a lot of money writing songs about you... well, now he’s branching out, clearly,” Lambert says, the edge of laughter persistent in his voice. Geralt scoffs and shakes Coen and Eskel off, the two Witchers too busy hugging their hurting sides from laughing to keep him in check. Aiden is still sitting but there are tears at the corner of his eyes.

“Give me that,” he demands, holding out his hand towards Lambert. Lambert just shakes his head.

“Hey, you want a copy, buy it! So, want to answer that or what?”

“I’ve never fucked Jaskier and I don’t know where all that comes from, now give me the fucking book!”

“Ah, see, I suspected, because some scenes are very out of character for you! Like here, where he says ‘ _Eric seemed unsure at the first glance of my throbbing manhood_ ’ as if you’ve ever been unsure about sucking a cock in your life, Geralt, what does Jaskier think of you?”

Geralt jumps, again, this time with more luck. The brawl that ensues is loud and dirty, everyone joining in. Geralt gets a kick in the balls from Eskel and a punch in the kidney from Coen, but soon they are all too distracted by fighting each other to care about what the scuffle was really about and he can retrieve the book from Lambert’s hand, who is nursing a bloody nose and still laughing.

\---

The book is awful. Geralt knows Jaskier's songs and poetry and, while he’s certainly not an expert, he can say they are pretty good - the songs are sung by everyone and their mother and the published poetry is what gave Jaskier his tenure in Oxenfurt, so he _knows_ they are - but this… this is shit.

First of all, the language is terrible, so poetic and euphemistic Geralt sometimes has to reread the same sentence thrice to understand what the bard is talking about. He has never understood the appeal of written smut and he swears if he has to read about more “throbbing members” or “tumescent globes” he’s going to tear off his own shining orbs (apparently those are eyes, who knew).

Second, the story is trite, uninteresting, and doesn’t flow at all. There’s no plot, just two guys fucking all the time as if it were possible with the life they...the _characters_ live. Completely unrealistic.

Third, the characters. Geralt can see why Lambert thought it was about him, of course, but it’s a version of him that has nothing to do with _him_. This “Eric” is a mix of a virgin and a brute, switching from one to the other without any segue at all, has maybe two lines of dialogue in the entire booklet, and is mostly covered in blood and dirt all the time. Which.. ok, maybe that’s fair. The Path is not a place where one can stay clean all the time, so what? What’s absolutely unbelievable, however, is that “Dandelion” doesn’t seem to care about that at all, while Jaskier is constantly giving Geralt shit about how he smells and when he washes. He goes above and beyond, often, just to secure a bath for Geralt - who appreciates it, if nothing else because he considers it’s one of the rare perks of having Jaskier constantly prattling around him.

“Dandelion” is, in his own words, a fanciful peacock whose only goal in life is to enjoy the finer things, which doesn’t explain at all what he’s doing traveling with “Eric”, since, except for their sexual compatibility, they have absolutely nothing in common. Geralt at least knows Jaskier does it for the coin, which is a good enough reason to do most things in life, and since that coin sometimes turns his way too - a better-paid contract, a free room at some inn, less haggling for his prices - he endures. Well, he does more than that; after fifteen years of the tenacious presence at his side, he can say now he likes having Jaskier beside him, even when the prattling gets too much, even when he complains endlessly, even when he puts himself in danger more often than not.

Fourth, the sex. It’s...unrealistic, and ridiculous, and apparently “Eric” also has a knot, like wolves? And “Dandelion” likes it? “Eric” also hasn’t sucked a dick in his life before “Dandelion” and his ass is untouched? And “Dandelion” has taken it upon himself to teach “Eric” all things about sex, but “Eric” is also a fan of manhandling “Dandelion”. It’s all a bit confusing.

Anyway, the book is awful. Geralt decides to forget all about it immediately.

\---

Geralt doesn’t forget about it immediately. Quite the opposite, as the booklet starts to haunt his dreams.

A few days after reading it he wakes up hard as steel, a hand unconsciously wrapped around his cock, fleeting images of Jaskier lingering behind his eyelids. Jaskier naked, Jaskier laughing, Jaskier sprawled, Jaskier smiling with a twinkle in his eyes. Jaskier moaning, Jaskier tugging at his hair, Jaskier’s hands, Jaskier tight around him. Ephemeral thoughts, barely there and gone in a moment, part fantasy and part knowledge. He comes in his hand before he even notices he was close.

It’s not the first time it's happened since they met each other - he’s not _blind_ , thank you very much - but it’s been a very long time since Geralt hasn't managed to keep a tight lid on whatever part of his brain is appointed to conjure thoughts about fucking Jaskier. Except the book blew the lid to pieces and now it’s all he can think about; dreams are out of his control, of course, but the daydreams, those he should really put a stop to.

The other Witchers can smell him and the winter is a long, excruciating sequence of teasing until he loses his shit, beats them up in training a little bit too hard, barricades himself into his room, and meditates for two days until his mind is blessedly blank again.

\---

When spring comes Geralt goes out on his path again. The dreams have settled, thank the gods, and the fighting and riding and barely sleeping get rid of them completely. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, he never does, so he just goes West for a month or so, taking every contract he can find.

Jaskier meets him by chance, on the road along the Pontar, in between towns.

“Well hello, Geralt, fancy meeting you here! How was your winter? Mine, let me tell you, was absolutely eventful -” and, just like that, the Bard settles himself at the side of Roach and starts filling the silence with his usual enormous amount of words and gossip and randomly useful information. Geralt grunts and lets him, as he always does.

For a couple of days everything is as it ever was: Geralt rides, Jaskier walks, Geralt broods, Jaskier sings, Roach shits. It’s only on the third night, as they are settled for the evening around a fire, that Geralt’s mind is pulled back to the beginning of winter as Jaskier, lute abandoned for the night in its case, takes out a battered notebook and starts to scribble furiously, eyes squinted to make the most of the dim light and tongue between his teeth.

Geralt can’t help but wonder what Jaskier is writing. Poetry, maybe? Or maybe he’s writing his smut, thinking about how it would feel to suck Geralt’s cock, right where they are, in the orange light of a wood fire that gives the bard’s hair a golden sheen? Is he thinking about some Duchess he entertained during the winter, or is he imagining his full lips around the Witcher’s dick, wet with saliva, white with the stretch of his girth?

These are dangerous thoughts, distracting thoughts. Geralt shakes himself and focuses on his swords, the rhythmic movement of his hand settling his raging mind until the world is calm again and his cock softens in his pants.

\---

It gets worse, however, because of course it does.

The simple fact of seeing Jaskier writing blows the lid in Geralt’s mind - again. The dreams come back, with the added complication that he can’t do anything about them because no, he’s not going to stroke his cock with Jaskier right there, he has better manners than that. That means he’s horny, well, hornier, and everything Jaskier does is fuel for his imagination: the Bard bends to catch a flower, his ass is on display; the Bard kneels in front of the fire; the Bard sucks on a rabbit bone; the Bard opens his doublet even more on a sunny day; the Bard is sex on legs and Geralt is doomed.

He manages to keep his focus on his hunts, at least, mostly because he threatens Jaskier with leaving him in the woods alone if he follows, and Jaskier pouts and whines and laments but still stays put, thanks to the Gods, but the rest of the time Geralt goes about his life with a half-hard dick in his breeches and an unhealthy obsession with Jaskier’s lips and fingers.

Jaskier, on the other hand, seems completely unaware of the pit of despair Geralt is falling into, continuing to sing and hum and play and talk as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t write a book about his fantasies starring Geralt, as if Geralt hadn’t read it, as if there was nothing amiss at all. Maybe, from his point of view, there isn’t.

\---

Summer is underway when, after waking hard and aching for what must be the hundredth time since being reunited with the poet, Geralt decides to face the situation head-on. The sun is blazing, both he and Roach are sweaty, and Jaskier is walking in front of them, down to his linen chemise, transparent in the places it’s damp and sticking to his back and shoulders, moving with them at every step, all the more enticing with each sway of his hips, when suddenly Geralt blurts out:

“I’ve read your book.”

Jaskier turns, a wide smile on his face, his fringe clinging to his forehead, cheeks red from sun and warmth.

“Oh! Which one?”

“The smutty one, Jaskier.”

“No, yes, no, I got that, you had that tone about you, the disapproving tone, so I guessed you weren’t talking about my poetry one, well unless it was about my smutty poetry, was it the smutty poetry?”

“It’s called ‘On the road’,” Geralt manages to say while his mind is reeling from the information that there are more books like that out there. More than _one_ , which is already one hundred percent more than Geralt is comfortable with.

“Ah yes, I’m pretty happy about that one, it sells well apparently, better than the one with the baker and the blacksmith. Did you like it?”

“Did I.. Jaskier, did you write porn about me?!?”

“What, you’re going to be all judgy and puritan on me now, Geralt? Because really, you have absolutely no room to talk, I’ve been to the brothel with you a couple of times, and also that time at that feast in Novigrad, which was impressive even by my standards, even if I was a little disappointed when you didn't think about inviting me, Witcher, because that’s the kind of occasion one shares with their friends -”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Oooh, scary voice, ok, serious talk then, yes, I’ve maybe, possibly, a little bit, used you as inspiration for some erotic literature, _so what_.”

Like it’s normal. Like it’s not _weird_. Geralt can’t deal with it, so he focuses on something else.

“Literature is supposed to be _good_.”

“And that’s how I know you know nothing about literature, Geralt. Literature is supposed to sell, first and foremost, and people are who they are and wouldn’t recognize quality if it hit them in the face, and instead buy shit like that like it was warm honeycakes on a market day, which makes me, and you by association, wealthier men all year round.”

“What.”

“Well, of course as you’re my muse in pretty much everything I do, part of my royalties are invested in your well-being, don’t tell me you didn’t notice that! This particular book paid for those nice boots I bought you last year, and probably the next pair, and also that nice little inn in Ellander where we drank Toussaint wine which wasn’t even watered down -”

Jaskier keeps talking, but Geralt stops listening. This... this is not how he imagined this conversation going. He thinks about all the things Jaskier had bought him in their long acquaintance, wondering how much of his clothes, pack, even armour he has Jaskier’s porn to thank for. That’s... unsettling.

“- but of course, if it really bothers you, I’ll stop, I mean, I can write about something or someone else, it’s not like you’re my _only_ inspiration you know, even if I have to admit the ones I write with your character clearly sell better, apparently the ladies love to read about two cocks, who would have thought, right? Anyway -”

“That’s not me,” Geralt interjects because something about hearing himself treated as a character grates on him. He isn’t a man, not anymore, but he isn’t a fictional character either.

“Well of course not, you big lummox, it’s a fictional character loosely based on some of your traits, just as Dandelion is a fictional character loosely based on me, it’s not like I really want to share ourselves with the world, it’s just.. inspiration, fantasy, something that makes people dream, it doesn’t need to be real, you know, people don’t care about that, even if I had some reviews about how… anyway, did you like it?”

“No.”

“Oh, oh, this will be good! You’re one of my toughest critics, you know. I always improve after you give me your unfiltered opinions, even if I discard them most of the time because you know nothing about composition, or music, or storytelling, but go on, pray tell, what did you not like?”

Geralt can feel the headache that usually follows Jaskier’s longest rants building in the back of his eyes and he steers Roach towards the tree line, looking for a place to camp. The day is still young but he knows he will not be able to travel more for the day unless he reaches the shadow, drinks, and manages to close his eyes.

“Was it the story? I know, it’s a bit simple, I wrote another one with a lot more plot just sprinkled with porn, too bad you didn’t read that one instead -”

“You made me a virgin, Jaskier,” Geralt replies, tiredly. This conversation has one good consequence: for the first time in weeks, Geralt feels overwhelmed in a way that doesn’t involve his dick. Thanks to the skies for small mercies.

“..ah, yes, yes, I did that, didn’t I? Well, I needed some variety, I already wrote the one where it’s me who is a virgin, I had great fun with that by the way, and one where… Uhm, let’s not spoil the others, right? Right. So that’s your problem with it? You don’t want people to think you could have some virginal qualities to you? It’s not that bad, I could have written worse, there’s this little libellum I read once about a man getting completely fucked by a clan of rock trolls, now that I wouldn’t do to your image, no judgment of course, but still, maybe a little bit too much, what’s a first cock in the ass in comparison?”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He stops Roach at a clearing, dismounts, and starts to make camp. His lack of reaction doesn’t seem to hinder Jaskier but, after all, it never does.

“But if you don’t like it you could always give me pointers about how you’d prefer I write the next one, I was thinking about a classic ‘knight saves maiden from something something’, you would be the knight, of course, I would be the maiden in this scenario, even if it kinda repeats the other one, so maybe not? What do you think? Arranged marriage? Noble brat and stable boy? Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is: you didn’t like the virgin thing and that’s ok, that’s not for everyone - but it works for a lot of people apparently, let me tell you that - so what?”

Jaskier keeps talking as they make camp, fetching kindling while Geralt sets their bedrolls and ties Roach, his mind reeling with all the things Jaskier just dumped on it. He breathes. Again. If Jaskier can talk about that with this kind of detachment, maybe he can too.

“Whoever they are, give them a bed this time,” he grumbles, detaching Roach’s saddle and putting it next to the bedding.

“Oh, you weren’t a fan of the dirt and sweat? It fit the theme, you understand. In the one about the mercenary and the whore they only do it in a nice, silky bed. It’s about the atmosphere of the story, Geralt, not about realism or useless things like that, but yeah, ok, bed, that I can do, what else?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, lights the fire, and is satisfied to feel that some of the awkwardness is fading away, chased by the matter-of-fact way Jaskier is talking, the same as when he talks about how to put an awful hunt into a song. He has the same excitement too, the rabbiting heartbeat and the manic energy in the way he punctuates his talk with his hands.

“I don’t know, Jaskier, what about avoiding flowery terms and just call a cock a cock and an ass an ass?” he shrugs, taking off his armour for the rest of the day. The woods are relatively silent, he can’t hear or smell any monsters, his medallion is still: they should be safe for the night.

When he doesn’t get an answer he lifts his eyes toward the Bard, who’s watching him from the other side of the fire, a blush on his cheeks probably due to the heat. Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him and Jaskier starts again, as if nothing happened, with a slight hitch in his voice.

“Well, Geralt, I can’t publish something like that, people expect some language from me, I can’t just repeat cock and hole all the time!”

“Why not?”

“Because this is supposed to be literature, Geralt, maybe even poetry in some parts, and people like it when it’s more of a suggestion than something completely explicit.”

“Do they?” Geralt asks, doubt thick in his voice. _He_ doesn’t. He sits on his bedroll, back leaning against Roach’s saddle, and finally, finally, closes his eyes, letting the little wind beneath the trees cool his skin and the noises of the forest soothe his headache, even for a moment.

“Why, yes, yes they do, Geralt! Imagine the amount of repetition if I only used cock, dick, and prick! Sure, I could use penis too -”

“Please don’t.”

“Yeah, no, it’s not a very sexy word, is it? ‘He leaned in to press his lips on the head of his penis’ is just weird.”

Geralt _did not_ need that. The way Jaskier’s voice rasps lightly while he talks about lips and cocks, the image that simple phrase conjures again in his mind, throws him right back to his previous problem. He manages to hold back a groan as his breeches get tight once again, but just barely.

“Oh, oh, well, sorry Geralt if talking about my creative process is just that annoying to you!” Jaskier says, probably misunderstanding his pained expression - headache, half-hard, hot, frustrated from days, weeks of unresolved horniness - for annoyance, which is not that much of a stretch, to be entirely fair. “I’ll shut up now, but you will have no right to complain about my future works if you don’t want to help me out,” he pouts, crossing his arms on his chest, still pacing on the other side of the fire. Thankfully, he actually does shut up, for at least three minutes, before starting to wax poetic about some boar stew he ate in Ellander years ago. Jaskier’s mind is a mystery to Geralt.

\---

“Say, Geralt, do you like sucking cock?”

It’s some days later, the heat is still oppressive, and they’re on their way to a drowners contract. Jaskier is coming along because “drowners, Geralt, you could do that in your sleep, you can’t pretend it’s about my _safety_ ” and now Geralt really, really wishes he stayed at the tavern where they picked up the contract. He tries, very hard, to keep his face impassive. He’s not sure he manages.

“What?” he growls, instead, which has the same effect it usually has on Jaskier: none.

“Well, you said you wanted my smut to be more realistic, you can’t berate me for asking!!” Jaskier answers, all flailing limbs and excessively offended expressions. Geralt, predictably, doesn’t answer.

“Ok, ok, be like that then!” comes from the side of Roach. The silence, again, lasts about three minutes.

“Well, then at least... come on, Geralt, top or bottom?”

Geralt sputters on top of his horse, trying to conceal it with a cough that’s all the more unbelievable because he never coughs.

“I mean, I have my ideas, of course, and anyway it’s a fantasy and I do what I want, but…”

“Are you done?” Geralt asks, more flustered - flustered is not a word he would normally use for himself, but, clearly, exceptional circumstances - than angry, even if it kinda comes out with the same tone. He purposely avoids thinking about what ideas may Jaskier have.

“You are absolutely no fun whatsoever and I really don’t know why I keep gracing you with my company, Witcher!!”

Geralt doesn’t know either, but, even if he’d never admit it, he’s glad he does. Even despite this constant state of arousal Geralt is living in lately, and can’t seem to shake off.

\---

They’re in Novigrad. The city is smelly and hot and dirty and full of people who side-eye him. Geralt hates Novigrad, but Jaskier has some business here that can’t wait for winter, so they’re here.

“I’m kinda glad we talked about this, you know, because now I can tell you when I need to meet with my publisher instead of making up some court appointment as I usually do…” Jaskier prattles on, Geralt only half-listening. They’ve left Roach at the stables, taken a room at the Spearhead, and are on the way to the little library that publishes and sells Jaskier’s… special works.

As soon as they’re inside, Geralt is hit with the strong smell of parchment, leather, and squid ink, dense as a fog. A young woman, bright brown eyes and long black tresses worn free of any coverage - free, independent, smiling, Geralt’s brain supplies - welcomes them, warmly for Jaskier, with a more professional discretion for Geralt.

“Ah, Nora, this is Geralt, the Witcher. Geralt, this is Nora, the owner of the finest bookshop and novelties shop in all Novigrad, better, the entire Continent!” Jaskier introduces with a flourish, and the girl just rolls her eyes. Geralt feels his lips quirk up in amusement, and he hides it inclining his head respectfully.

“Yes, yes, _Master Bard_ ,” she says, tone heavily teasing on Jaskier’s title, “enough of your bullshit. Come, we have business to attend.”

Jaskier nods then turns to Geralt, all smiles. “We’ll leave you here to browse a bit, uh, Geralt? Maybe you’ll find things that are more to your taste here! See you later!” he adds, swiftly following the flowing dress of his publisher.

Geralt doubts he’s going to find anything to his taste, honestly, but he has nothing better to do, and he hates Novigrad, so browsing it is.

The bookshop, while crowded, little, and dusty, is surprisingly well organized. The books, booklets, and rolls are divided into sections that are clearly indicated, some of which would make Geralt blush if it was still something he could do. He passes his index finger along the book spines at eye level, when a familiar name stops him, finger hovering over a cover with “Dandelion” written on it. He debates with himself for a moment whether he actually wants to read more of his friend’s work, then curiosity wins. He sets his back towards where Jaskier and Nora have disappeared, leans on the shelves, and opens the booklet. The edition is nicer than the one he read in the winter, embossed leather cover and thick paper, and it feels good in his hand.

The title, golden on the brown leather, says “ _Run to show that love’s worth running to_ , love poems by Dandelion”, and the Witcher is already ready to roll his eyes. He knows how Jaskier loves. Jaskier loves fast and hard, falling for every pretty pair of eyes, kind smile, or ample bosom. His love comes and goes faster than a falcon on a hare, and as lethal. He doesn’t care about faithfulness, marriages, age, social condition, gender, he’s in love thrice a day on a good day, and out of love the next. Geralt always had a hard time believing that it’s _love_ and not lust, but Jaskier is a poet and plays with words and wants to believe it’s love, so. He lets him.

He’s disbelieving in the quality of the poetry, though.

As expected, the first poem is smut in verses. Geralt does, then, roll his eyes.

He skims the other poems, not really interested anymore, but some verses catch his eyes.

_When your seams have come unknitted_

_And you cry out to the sky_

_I've run out of my words, my song_

_Just let me die, me die_

_The rockrose and the thistle_

_Will whistle as you moan_

_I could try to calm you down_

_But I know you won't_

_You were raised by wolves and voices_

_Remember me I ask, remember me I sing_

_Give me back my heart you wingless thing_

_Witness me, old man, I am the Wild_

_I’m the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shunned_

_All those letters unsent and that garden ungrown_

_It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you_

_It’s not fair, 'cause you make me laugh when I’m actually really fucking cross at you for something_

_'Cause I will wait and hope_

_Your eyes aren’t rivers there to weep_

_But a place for crows to rest their feet_

_And I will wait and hope_

_And rest my head at night content_

_Knowing where my marbles went_

Drowned in erotic elegy, Geralt can still recognize the longing, the heartbreak. These are good actually, maybe too raunchy for being published by the Oxenfurt University, but good nonetheless (better than the smutty stories for sure). On the last page, a dedication.

_To my best friend in the whole wide world, my muse, you who will never know_

_J._

Oh. _Oh_.

\---

They leave the bookstore, Jaskier’s purse heavier than when he got in, the Bard excited about royalties and sales and percentages and censorship and “they can all go fuck a cow, Geralt, they know they can’t stop art, people will keep writing depraved things even if they burn all the books there are, so, really, what’s even their point”, but Geralt only listens with half an ear. His mind keeps going back to the poems, the title, the dedication, a whirlwind of thoughts and assumptions, and the feeling of reality adjusting itself around him as if he was walking in a world different from the one he thought he knew. He manages to grunt at the right times, though, because Jaskier doesn’t seem to think anything’s amiss, and Geralt is grateful for that.

They reach their room at the Spearhead soon after and Geralt goes upstairs while Jaskier stays and chats with the innkeeper, probably hoping to be offered a bath, or a meal, or both.

Everything’s the same and everything’s different at the same time.

The room is small, crowded by a bed that’s not as small as usual, a chair, and their things; Jaskier’s lute, his pack, his other pack, his other other pack, Geralt’s pack, his armour, his swords, his potions satchel, all their life intertwined on the floor of a room for rent.

When Jaskier comes upstairs, victoriously carrying a tray with two bowls and a loaf of bread, Geralt is kneeling in the little space at the end of the bed, trying to calm his mind, to make sense of his thoughts as he learned to do decades ago. Jaskier has the same respect he usually has for Geralt’s meditation: none.

“The lady downstairs is very kind, Geralt, and we were offered a meal for free! For free! It’s not like my purse isn’t filled right now, as you know, but carpe diem or whatever, right?”

Geralt keeps his eyes shut, trying to keep out the external noise to make sense of the internal one, but his keen senses pick up everything anyway: Jaskier’s feet shuffling on the floor, the tray getting set on the chair, the smell of a hearty stew, Jaskier taking off his boots and doublet and humming softly a melody he’s been working on in the last few days.

“I talked to Nora, you know, about what you said the other day,” Jaskier continues, heedless of Geralt’s efforts, “and you would never guess! She agreed! She said that the flowery shit is selling well, of course, but her most daring clientele would like something more... explicit, like you said, and well, I aim to please, do I not? So I was thinking, to start slow, maybe a good, romantic story, but with cocks and asses and..”

“Dammit, Jaskier, shut up! I’ve been half-hard for weeks, bard, can’t you just... change the topic?”

Geralt still doesn’t open his eyes, even as he shouts. The dark is reassuring behind his eyelids, warm against the something that is thrumming in his chest and is not only guilt from yelling at his friend.

Silence answers him for a moment, then he hears, barely audible, muttered between closed lips, “Well, I’ve been half-hard for fifteen years, but you don’t hear me complaining, do you?”

Jaskier must know he heard. He _must_ know.

When he opens his eyes Jaskier is near the window, looking out. His chemise is half undone, a tuft of chest hair on display, his hair plastered on his forehead by the heat, his eyes shining in the afternoon’s shadowed light. Geralt, finally, groans.

He’s beautiful, and annoying, and he talks too much, and Geralt wants to keep him all for himself.

The thought comes unbidden, and the wave of feelings it raises in its wake is almost enough for Geralt to choke on it. There’s no order or logic to them, a hurricane of thoughts and sensations: Jaskier’s smile, Jaskier’s voice, Jaskier’s hand on him while he sutures a wound, Jaskier singing while he washes his hair. Feeling cared for when a little pack of dried figs join his rations. The warmth that spreads into his chest when Jaskier bargains for a better deal at an inn, a tavern, or from an alderman. The smell of fresh herbs and young wood that is so familiar he’s started to miss it when it’s gone, when Jaskier’s gone. The deep need to protect this ridiculous man from men and beasts alike, and the curl of satisfaction low in his belly when Jaskier is safe, and warm, and fed.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Geralt gets up, then. He crosses the room (barely two, three steps) to join Jaskier. In a hunt, there’s planning, and strategy, and reflection. Sometimes, though, there’s taking the opportunity when it arises, consequences be damned, because the reward is too tempting to lose time before getting it.

The bard doesn’t look at him, eyes lost on the world outside, his mouth stiff, arms curled protectively around his middle. Geralt lets a finger trail along his forearm, slowly, feeling how Jaskier’s skin reacts in goosebumps despite the summer heat.

“I’m sorry,” says Geralt, low between them.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier replies, in the same hushed tone, his eyes darting between Geralt’s finger on his skin and Geralt’s face, his expression guarded, his shoulders drawing up.

“I…” at a loss for words, Geralt trails his hand upward, going to frame Jaskier’s cheek. He drinks in the figure in front of him, the flushed cheeks, the sheer chemise that leaves nothing of his lean figure to the imagination, the slender ankles and feet, naked on the dark wood of the floor. His hungry observation is cut off by the sharp scent of fear, like vinegar poured directly in his nose. His eyes jump towards Jaskier’s face, his eyes gone dull, his brows furrowed.

“Don’t,” is the firm reply from Jaskier, cold and sharp, “Just… don’t. Go to the Passiflora, Geralt, I’m sure Linda will be happy to have you again.” The bard steps aside, tearing away his face from Geralt’s touch. His expression goes from pinched to hurt, and Geralt doesn’t even know what he’s done.

“What?”

“I get it, you’re horny, you want a fuck, you heard what I said and thought ‘Well, that works well enough, doesn’t it’ but no, Geralt, I’m not your quick fuck for emptying your balls, so please, just go see Linda. Please.”

The air smells like salt water above the fear, tears starting to fill Jaskier’s eyes as he turns away and sits heavily on the bed.

“It’s not…” Geralt starts, only to be interrupted by Jaskier’s rising voice. Jaskier’s voice is, whatever Geralt may say about it aloud, a beautiful thing: it has range in tune, emotion, and volume. It can be smooth and soft, loud and cheery, high, low, and, apparently, colder than the kiss of steel on skin.

“It’s not what, Witcher? It’s not what you meant? Oh, yeah, sure, I’m totally gonna buy that you, by a fucking miracle after fifteen years, managed to find amorous feelings for me just after you read my smut? Do you think I’m _an idiot_ , Geralt? Because I can tell you, I’m really not. Did you think I didn’t notice the changes in you after you read my silly little book? The world of possibilities you thought were opening up right before you? Yeah, well, take advice from a friend: write them, they sell pretty good. Sublimation, projection, call it whatever you want, I’ve been doing _fine_ with it for fifteen years, Geralt. _Fifteen_. You may think it’s little more than the lifetime of a fly for you, but it’s almost half of mine. Being with you and yet without, for months at a time, do you think it’s easy? Do you think you _suffered_ , Witcher, these last months? You have _no idea_.”

Jaskier is standing now, taller than he’s ever been, right in Geralt’s face. His voice still cuts, his eyes are filled with stubborn tears that don’t want to fall. Geralt stays silent; for curiosity or cowardice, he doesn’t even know. He drinks in the sight of the sweaty, teary, angry, beautiful man in front of him and lets his bravery punch him like an uppercut.

“You have no idea what it is to love you, Geralt, day in and day out, the days you don’t say more than two words, the days you smell like monster’s shit, the days you follow some pretty violet eyes and come back reeking of _her_ , the days where you think it’s funny to mock my singing, or my poetry, or my clothes, the days you decide to leave before dawn just to see if I’ll scramble after you like a stupid puppy! And all that, Geralt, I do in silence. I write poems and songs and porn instead because your _friendship_ is enough, the days I can convince myself I have at least that. And now what? You thought we could just fuck for research purposes? It doesn’t work like that, Witcher, and I will not allow you to degrade my fucking feelings like that. So go, to the Passiflora, to Yennefer, to Triss, to whatever, I don’t care, and come back when you have forgotten all this and we can just.. be back to whatever it is we always were. Just.. don’t do this to me, Geralt. Please.”

Jaskier’s voice cracks on the last words, his blazing eyes leaving Geralt’s to fall between them. The tears were stubborn but couldn’t resist in the end; streaks of salted water slid down the Bard's cheeks. Geralt wipes the one on the left cheek with his thumb, slowly. A sob answers his gesture. His thoughts scramble in his mind, trying to make sense, trying to understand, trying even harder to find a solution, _now_.

“I’m not going to go to the Passiflora, Jaskier, nor anywhere else. But I’m going downstairs and I’ll come back as soon as I know I won’t hurt you more than I’ve already done. Okay?”

Jaskier’s lips are pinched in a flat line, his brow furrowed and his shoulders high and stiff, but he nods anyway. Geralt takes away his fingers from the bard's smooth cheek with a certain amount of reluctance, turns, takes his satchel, and leaves the room, trying to not feel too much like the coward he knows he is. As soon as he closes the door behind him he hears the squeak of the bed frame and a deep, stuttered breath, and he goes downstairs.

It takes but a moment to find a table, order a pint, and set his journal in front of him, a blank page towards the end and a pencil in hand.

He writes fast, letting his thoughts pour on the page without thinking about form. Lists, at first, of random things he thinks about Jaskier, then slightly better-formulated sentences about memories, then the dam breaks and he spills feelings on the paper, feeling like he’s cleansing a festering wound he didn’t even know he had. When he lifts his head the tavern hall is filled with patrons, loud laughs and voices around him, sweat and filth fill his nose all of a sudden, and he realizes he spent a lot more time at the table than he thought, or wanted. He finishes his warm ale, leaves some orens on the table, and gets up.

The stairs feel like an impossible task for a long moment. The two pages of scribbled writing weigh in his hand like a war ax, his breath is short, his heart pounding in his chest. He feels weird and uncomfortable, and vulnerable in a way he never feels and, honestly, hates already. One foot after the other, he climbs toward the second floor with the same strength it takes to cross a mountain stream in the spring when the ice is thawing and the current is strong. On the other side of the door, he hears nothing except for Jaskier’s breathing, too quick for the man to be sleeping. He hesitates in front of the door, feeling like a coward all over again; not a feeling Geralt likes so, with a huff, he crouches and lets the letter glide underneath the door. As he debates whether to knock or not he hears Jaskier moving, his soft steps on the creaking wood, the sound of paper being picked up. He sits on his side of the door and waits.

Geralt is usually good at waiting; it comes with the territory. Patience is one of the most important virtues for a good hunter, whatever it is they hunt, and even more for a Witcher. He has, however, a hard time reaching his reserves of it now, as every beat of his heart punctuates the passing of time, too slow, too long. His hands are clammy and he doesn’t know why.

When Jaskier opens the door, finally - _finally_ \- Geralt jumps on his feet and turns, eager and scared and weak and all those pesky feelings the Trials were supposed to burn out of him but never quite managed. As he looks at Jaskier’s face, though, his mind comes to a screeching halt when he sees tear-stricken cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. He enters the room when Jaskier gestures to him nevertheless.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asks in a cracked voice, waving the pages. Geralt shrugs, he doesn’t know himself. A love letter? A declaration of intent? A stream of consciousness?

“You said to write about it, so I did,” whatever ‘it’ may be he doesn’t say, scared still to put names on this… mess that has lodged itself in his chest.

“This looks awfully like a declaration, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice has regained some warmth, a teasing edge to it. When Geralt raises his gaze to Jaskier’s face there’s the hint of a smile in the curve of his lips, and something unclenches in his throat.

“That it does,” he admits, as much for Jaskier’s benefit than his own.

There’s a particular kind of moment in Geralt’s life when he knows, deep inside, that everything is on the edge and could topple on either side of the balance; sometimes it’s the moment he raises his sword for the killing blow, sometimes it’s in the choice to draw his sword altogether. He felt like that when he asked for the law of surprise at Pavetta’s wedding, when he used his last wish for Yennefer, and even when he chose Roach as his horse on a stupidly hot market day. Every time it feels like he’s flying, and he has enough time to wonder if he’s gonna land or fall. In front of Jaskier, right now, he feels the same, and the smile that blossoms on Jaskier’s face feels like a secure landing, concrete earth under his feet.

“Well, if I knew you reading my smut was all it took I would have done it years ago,” Jaskier teases, taking a slow step forward that Geralt mirrors.

“Hmm. The poetry helped, too,” he replies, his eyes darting between eyes still framed by salt and full lips stretched upwards, and he stays still, letting Jaskier come to him, which he does, albeit slowly.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow.

“What poetry?”

“ _‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you_ ’”

A gasp between parted lips, wide eyes, again the smell of fear, but duller this time.

“I particularly appreciated the dedication,” Geralt adds, just to be a shit, to hear the sound of Jaskier’s heart double down in his chest, his cheeks getting flushed. He extends his hand towards him, slowly, and as Jaskier does nothing to back off he glides his fingers along his cheek, over his ear, tangling them in his hair. Jaskier’s eyes flutter, and a nervous laugh leaves his mouth.

“Of all the books in there you really had to find that one, huh?”

“I'm glad I did.”

“I think I’m glad you did, too.”

Geralt hums, raking his fingers in the damp hair under them. He feels Jaskier’s gaze on him, but can’t tear himself away from the slightly parted lips in front of him. When Jaskier briefly licks his lips, leaving them moistened for a second in the heat of the late afternoon, Geralt mirrors him.

“Can I kiss you?”

Jaskier’s answer comes without words but from his mouth all the same, and their bodies collide, immediately hot from more than just the summer heat. Their lips fit like puzzle pieces without the usual awkwardness of first kisses where one needs to learn the other, tongues plunging and retreating as naturally as can be. Hands roam over clammy fabric, then under it over humid skin. Time stretches and runs at the same time and before either of them can understand it they’re both naked and collapsing on the bed.

Geralt detaches himself from Jaskier’s mouth, propping himself on his elbow, drinking in his form stretched on the bed. His right hand meanders over the planes of Jaskier’s chest, combing through the hair there, caressing the stiff nipples nested in it. Jaskier just watches him, from his face to his hand and everything else, and bites his lip when he looks at Geralt’s stiff cock resting against the crease of his hip.

“Are you just gonna look at me all night or do you plan to do something with that?” Jaskier asks, his chin jutting out to point at his dick.

“Hmm. I don’t know. I like looking at you.”

“Do you?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt hears the slightly doubtful inflection behind the words, the question coming out as more honest than what Jaskier probably planned.

“Very much so,” he replies, sliding down on the bed, tugging on Jaskier’s hip to make him roll on his side, nosing at his belly, along his treasure trail. He feels Jaskier’s hand tangling in his hair, tugging a little, and he groans in response. Jaskier tugs harder. Geralt sucks a mark on his hip, before swallowing his cock down. Jaskier’s hand scrambles on his head and a half shouted “Fuck!” leaves the bard’s lips.

Geralt smirks around his mouthful and tugs on Jaskier’s hip again, then on his knee, guiding his long leg around his shoulder. Jaskier takes the hint, starting to rock his pelvis carefully at first, then more and more freely. Geralt is aware there is a string of curses and filth spewing from his bard’s lips but it’s drowned by the white noise in his brain, the all-encompassing pleasure of having his mouth filled and used, the rhythmic movements of the body in front of him, the smell of skin and sweat and heat and sex. He closes his eyes and lets everything wash over him, lost in the taste of Jaskier, his scent, the almost suffocating heat of being enclosed by his body, until Jaskier’s hips stutter, his fingers tangling tighter in his hair and, with a wail that must have been Geralt’s name, he comes. Geralt keeps him in his mouth still, until his cock has stopped pulsing, until he softens on his tongue, and then a bit longer. Long fingers are carding through his hair while Jaskier unclenches his thighs and relaxes, turning on his back and letting his dick fall out of Geralt’s mouth. When Geralt looks at him he looks completely disheveled, hair plastered on his forehead, cheeks a nice, dark shade of pink, eyes half lidded and a soft expression. Jaskier clears his throat.

“Well, uhm, that was..”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, prowling over Jaskier on all four, a smirk at the edge of his lips, “Lambert did say that the least believable thing in that book was that I would be unsure about sucking your cock… he was right.”

The horrified expression on Jaskier’s face is priceless.

“Lambert read it?? Your.. your brothers read it??”

“Hmm,” he confirms, “It was the talk of the winter in Kaer Morhen. I didn’t hear the end of it all season.”

Jaskier covers his face with both hands, a whine coming up from deep in his chest. Geralt conceals a laugh against his throat, nudging Jaskier’s wrists with his head.

“Come on, bard, are you going all puritan and shameful on me now?”

A pat on the head is his answer, and only makes him laugh more, until Jaskier frees his face and shuts him up with a kiss, pulling him against his body. The contact serves as a reminder for both of them that Geralt’s cock is still very much interested, albeit untouched, and Geralt moans in his mouth. Jaskier wraps his legs around his waist, encouraging him to rock against his belly with a press of his heels against his ass, so Geralt does.

“Next time, Witcher, you’ll fuck me,” Jaskier says, low voice directly in his ear. Geralt nods and grunts, the pleasure of the damp slide enough to bring him high, especially as Jaskier keeps whispering filthy promises and caressing his back and shoulders, keeping him close. “And then I’ll fuck you, if you like,” the sound that leaves Geralt’s throat clearly indicates he would like that very much, and he feels Jaskier’s smile against his ear. “Yeah? I’d like that too. So many things, Geralt, fifteen years of fantasies, we’re gonna do them all, aren’t we? I’m not letting you go before we do.” And Geralt hopes it’ll take a long time, a lifetime maybe, and it’s that thought that sends him over the edge, squeezing Jaskier as he paints him white.

When the aftershocks subside, Geralt rolls away from Jaskier. They are both sweaty, and dirty, and the heat is suffocating in the little room even as the sun starts to set. Their breaths start to slow as they look at one another, eyes soft, secret smiles in the relative silence of their shared space.

“So,” Jaskier clears his throat once again, “did.. hmm.. did Vesemir read it too?”

Geralt groans and rolls on his belly, hiding his face in the bedding. “Yes.”

“Oh god, I can never ever meet your family, Geralt.”

“I’m sure they have suggestions to make your stories better though,” he mumbles in the pillow, and receives another pillow on his head for his troubles. He laughs, and he feels as if it’s the first time he’s laughing in all his long life.

\---

The next year Jaskier publishes another book. It sells very well, despite being terribly explicit. When they receive the news that it’s been burned on a forbidden books fire, in a square in Novigrad, Jaskier claims to have reached his peak of notoriety in smut writing and buys a very expensive bottle of Est Est to celebrate. And if they replicate some of the hottest scenes of the book in their inn’s room it is nobody’s business but theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my other Witcher fics:
> 
> \- [A piper at the gates of dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411083/chapters/56107210); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated E, <9k. Geralt finds Jaskier one year and a half after the mountain.  
> \- the [Muse 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752481): Modern setting, from hook-up to lovers, rated E, Geralt wears kilts, angst with a happy ending. <20k  
> \- [Calligraphy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365418): 5k ficwip challenge, College/University, rated E, inspired by art, fluff, 5k  
> \- [In the kitchen of a keep in the mountains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910944/chapters/62970847): canon universe, found family, food as a love language, internal monologues, character study, rated T, 12k  
> \- [ There was only one bed and it was uncomfortable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283094): 5+1 Crack, rated E, 4k  
> \- [Wish you were here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579083); canon universe, porn without plot, rated E, 5k. Geralt walks in on Jaskier.. again.  
> \- [Of food, friendship and apologies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954674); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated G, 2k, not or pre slash. Food is a love language.  
> \- [As we lie here in our bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28527864): canon universe, porn without plot, somnophilia prompt for the Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, rated E, 1k  
> \- [Black in front of my eyes, bark against my back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616832): canon universe, porn without plot, outdoor, clothed sex, rated E, <1k  
> \- [Things that bump in the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617060): pre canon universe, porn without plot, Eskel/Geralt, Kaer Morhen, rated E, <1k  
> \- [I quite like seeing you all tied up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617300): canon universe, porn without plot, Geraskier, soft bondage, rated E, <1k  
>   
> And you can come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ArtanisNaanie) too!


End file.
